


watching from the other side

by riverbed



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Angst, Deathfic, Gen, Vignettes, can you hate yourself after death? hamilton is ready to find out, relationships are somewhat tangential
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 19:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6164863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbed/pseuds/riverbed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>who knew teaching yourself to say goodbye was so hard?</p><p>the one wherein alexander dies and finds that as it just so happens, the world does stop for him, if only for a moment. and then he is taken on a dickensian guided tour of all his past mistakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	watching from the other side

**Author's Note:**

> warnings throughout for tons of vague/frenetic/one-sided dialogue, weirdly intimate descriptions of wounds that might induce squirming, ghost temper tantrums that absolutely compare to the real-live ones, the author's own attempt at worldbuilding an afterlife, multiple tired clichés and a general sense of misery.
> 
>  
> 
> that said, enjoy!

He is surprised by the pain.

That’s what it comes down to. It’s been years since he’s been shot and without the frenzy of battle to distract him the pain feels like it aims to tear him in two. It rips through his skin and muscle and liver tissue with little regard for them, and he had forgotten how hot a bullet freshly fired is. It burns as it bores into him, a parasite burrowing its newly chosen home in the rot of soon-to-die flesh.

Hamilton acknowledges, somehow, that he has little time. But things seems slower, somehow, unreal, even as the world speeds up around him; Van Ness is rushing to Burr, and Pendleton is calling for the doctor, but his voice sounds underwater, garbled and distant. Everything is hazy and Hamilton barely feels the impact as he falls on a bed of sharp twigs and pine needles. It feels soft. Comfortable. He could sleep here. He is so tired. He wants to sleep.

The matter of the hot knife dragging up his insides is no matter. It hurts, and he registers it, and then he shoves it away. That’s the way it’s always been. Everything he has endured he has done so only because of his ability to write it away, work it out for himself on paper like the drafting of a math formula. When he does not have paper, he pushes it down, calls upon it only when he once again does. He will have someone fetch him a pen when he wakes. For now, he wants to sleep.

*

Strong scent of ammonia. Wake up, Hamilton, damn it! You have much to do. They are trying to wake you! Look at Hosack - he is frantic. Look at Pendleton - that judge, level-headed and always so sure; your friend, Hamilton, your mentor. If you tilt your head back far enough you can see that he is pained with worry for you. They are watching you bleed, Hamilton. Give them something other than blood. man! Give them your words! Don’t tell me your words have finally failed you. Give them your words!

You can see Burr, if you look - look, there, how he is fretting over this. I always told you to let the enemy sweat. Did you fire at him? I saw that shot. I have never claimed to know what goes on in your head, but that - that was not the marksman I know. The tree? That ball is forever there, a testament to your wastefulness. Recklessness.

I am surprised at you, Hamilton. I am surprised you are letting the pain take you. Pain is pain, or it is motive. It is reason to shoot to kill. What was this - an aim for a miss? A compromise? Since when have you compromised? Choose the pain, or choose the motive; don’t choose the emptiness. When it came for me it was the bright brilliant white of relief but - you know - it was still empty. 

Now we can talk. I have seen you, you know, ever since the last time you saw me. The funny thing about death is that you are everywhere at once. Is that funny? You did always criticize my humor. My wit is just dryer than yours, my boy.

I was there the day your son died. I want you to know - I’m sorry. He is sorry, too. He’s here, but I think he’s not ready to see you. He hangs back. Alas, I mourned for him, for you. And for your family, your little girls. I had a strange feeling that day - this itching to speak with you, to lend you my consult. Like back in the war. Let you talk and talk and not interrupt, let you go on because I know it does you good.

Where are your words, Alexander? But ah, you fall under again. It’s tempting, isn’t it? Why don’t you walk toward the emptiness? There is a point at which it is not your choice anymore - I have come to realize this was all written in books somewhere that you and I will never be able to read. That was not the marksman I know. That was not the soldier I trained. Give in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [i have a number of keys, no doors to unlock](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N1VrvmSzRio)
> 
> comments *evanescence voice* wake me up inside


End file.
